it's always about time, isn't it?

what is there to say? i'm blissfully happy, and to write is to think and to think brings fear. 


i'm starting to realise that quantitative priorities may not, indeed, be priorities at all, and here i am left adjusting to what other people call living. it's a terribly strange process. i feel upside down, with that same giddiness and my head about to burst. the first inclination is of course to keep track of all of this, write it and analyse it and let it slip me back into a familiar melancholy.


i suppose i shouldn't want to. 


yes, it's all rather mixed up these days. 

and so: she and i, we're dashing off to see the redwoods this weekend, the first road trip, it's going to be magnificent, yes! and quite intense if you're one of those still fumbling about with living. but hey, trees and wine and cigarettes and weed and the california coast, and maybe i'll just lose myself in the woods for a time, come back when something makes sense, or nothing at all.